Brian Drake - The Glinkov Extraction

Stiletto punched in the code for the safe house door and led Glinkov inside. His wife and daughter sat on the couch, huddled together; she turned when the door opened, eyes wide, and gasped.

Scott could only stand back while wife embraced husband and the little girl joined them, all three hugging tight and crying. Stiletto went down the hall to a bedroom and took out his cell phone. He dialed.

“Yes?” Number One’s deep baritone came over the connection.

“It’s Stiletto.”

“You’ve made quite a bit of noise, Mr. Stiletto.”

“Come and get us. I have Glinkov but we lost Ravkin and Anastasia.”

“Unfortunate. Where are you?”

Scott hesitated, but he saw no other way than to reveal the location. He did.

“I’ll have a recovery team there in fifteen minutes.”

“How—” but Scott didn’t finish the question. The connection ended.

Stiletto put the phone away and sorted through Ravkin’s clothes, his heart heavy with the loss of him and Anastasia, two good people who had only wanted what was best for their country. But they had gone down fighting, and that was the only way it could have happened. Anything less would have been an insult.

Ravkin and Glinkov were almost the same size, and he brought the other man several choices and told him to get cleaned up in the shower because their extraction team was on the way. Glinkov kissed his family again and hurried down the hall.

Rina looked at Scott with watery eyes. Xenia rushed forward and grabbed Stiletto around the left leg.

Neither needed to say thank you.

THE TRANSPORT van collected Stiletto and the Glinkovs on schedule and without incident. The group sat in the back of the van as he traveled through Moscow streets and out to the countryside where they stopped at a private airfield under heavy guard. The guards all spoke Russian and shuffled the four from van to a waiting Lear jet that took off within minutes of their arrival.

The plane was warm and offered not only comfortable leather seats, but plenty to eat and drink as well as satellite television for entertainment. The cabin insulation reduced the roar of the jet engines to a dull throb. The pilots promised them a quick trip to Germany, where they would refuel and collect another pair of pilots who would fly them across the ocean to the U.S.

Vlad, still looking a little dazed, and still sore, but with clear eyes and his head up, cornered Scott in the galley as Scott poured a beer.

“I think we have a mutual friend,” Glinkov said. Then he closed his eyes and winced.

“We gotta get you to a doctor.”

“I’ll live.” Vlad opened his eyes. “Answer me.”

Scott nodded. “This isn’t a C.I.A. plane.”

“You’ve taken an incredible risk, Scott. I’m not sure I’m worth it.”

“I don’t want to hear that, Vlad. And it might have been for nothing anyway. I’m not sure what we’ll do when we land. Ravkin had information stored on the cloud that would have helped get the heat off me and guaranteed safe passage for you, but without him we’re throwing ourselves at their mercy.”

“You think they’ll send us back?”

“I’m not sure what they’ll do.”

Rina came over. “No, wait. He gave me his password.”

Stiletto said, “He what?”

“While you and Anastasia were at the nightclub, he made me memorize his password.”

Stiletto put the beer down and hurried to his seat, where there was a tablet computer bolted to the fuselage. He went through the retrieval process with Rina over his shoulder, and when the documents were open, scrolled through each one carefully. Presently he sat back, stunned.

He glanced over at Xenia, who sat in front of the television watching a cartoon. She had no idea of the real-life drama taking place behind her. If his sacrifice resulted in the little girl living a normal live in the U.S., he considered the mission a success, however the unanswered questions that lay ahead still gave him a twinge of doubt. The last thing he wanted was for her to be sent back to Russia to face the certain death of her father and perhaps her mother too.

He smiled to show the confidence he didn’t quite feel, but the Glinkovs needed to see.

“I think we’ll be just fine after all,” he told them.

THE SHOWER felt good.

Stiletto turned off the water and stepped out of the steamy stall, dripping onto the blue shower mat, drying off in front of the window and grateful for the foggy mirror which concealed his reflection. He didn’t want to see his face. He didn’t know what to think of the Moscow adventure. He was scared about his future. Surely the C.I.A. would want him out, but was the Cabal a better option? Or was San Francisco? Had Ali changed her mind since their visit?

He pulled on some clean clothes, all provided by Number One. Their trip from Russia to Germany to Washington, DC had been smooth, a respite prior to the final battle between Scott and the Agency bureaucrats. Glinkov’s family was two floors below while Glinkov himself was at a clinic being treated for his wounds. The physical ones, anyway. Guilt was going to crush Glinkov before anything else harmed him. Scott wanted to find a way to alleviate that, if he could.

His cell phone sat on the writing table and he had a text message waiting from the General: DCI agrees. See you soon. Welcome home.

Stiletto had contacted the office and asked the General and DCI Webb to be at his hotel at four o’clock. It was two in the afternoon. He had time to prepare.

IKE FLEMING heard the heavy footsteps of the guard behind him and Webb as they walked down the quiet hallway to Stiletto’s hotel room.

They stopped short when they reached the door. It was already open a crack. The linebacker-looking guard pushed between them, drawing a pistol as he pushed the door open and took two steps inside.

Stiletto sat at the table, legs crossed, holding a bottle of beer. “You’re late,” he said.

The General and Webb entered and told the guard to stand by the door. They approached Scott and stopped halfway into the room.

Fleming said, “Hello, Scott.”

“General. Director Webb.”

DCI Webb said, “This is highly irregular, Stiletto.”

Scott gestured to the two empty chairs near the table. “Have a seat and we’ll talk.”

“I don’t think you’re in position to do much demanding,” Webb said.

“I get the sense that you’re upset with me, sir.”

Webb and Fleming sat down. Fleming kept his mouth shut as Webb sounded off.

“You’ve broken Agency rules and regulations; you’ve violated the sovereign space of another country; the Russians want you for murder; there are all kinds of reasons I’m upset.”

Stiletto placed the beer bottle near a thin stack of paper Fleming judged to be about 100 pages long. Webb kept his eyes on Scott.

“Have anything to say for yourself?”

“I deserve what I get, according to Agency disciplinary procedures,” Scott said. “The murder charge isn’t true. An accessory charge, maybe. The woman who killed Pushkin died at the refinery.”

“That’s a whole separate issue. I don’t even know where to start on taking you apart for that one.”

“I don’t care.” Stiletto pushed the stack of papers their way. “This government will extend asylum to the Glinkov family, or that information goes public.”

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“Yes.”

A red flush crawled up Webb’s neck. He opened his mouth but Fleming silenced him by placing a hand on his arm. “Sir, let’s see what he has.”

Webb snapped to Fleming. “Are you on his side?”

“I’m on the side of the truth, Carlton. Let’s see the document.”